


small truths

by propinquitous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Chronic Pain, Depression, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Panic Attacks, References To:, Self-Harm, Trauma, egregious abuse of metaphor, nothing super explicit but just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: In between all the big truths are the small truths.





	small truths

“I'm afraid all the time,” Shiro says.

“I don't know if I was meant to stay on Earth,” Keith says.

These are the large truths. They’re the overarching things that make people who they are, that constitute their bones and frame them up like houses. They’re fundamental.

By their nature, big truths take up a lot of space. When the pain in Shiro’s arm is so bad that it makes him weep, the truth of it swells up until it crowds out Keith’s attempts at comfort. More than once, Shiro has to hold Keith down while he thrashes through a panic attack, has to stop him from concussing himself with his own fists. There is no escaping the truth that they both need help that neither is likely to seek.

In between all the big truths are the small truths. They are the way that Shiro learned to braid Keith’s hair, how the light touches on Keith’s neck give him goosebumps. The space between the sweeping truth that some part of Shiro is fundamentally missing, not just of his body but of his heart, and the truth that Keith was not only an angry boy but is still an angry man, is just a wide enough chasm for tender things to grow. The small truths live in the time Keith has spent reading an old cookbook to learn how to make okayu; the care he took to learn that Shiro’s grandfather only served it with a little green onion, never anything else. They live in the warm touches before dawn and the space behind Keith’s ear that Shiro kisses him good morning. They’re more fragile than the big truths, more tenuous and unsure, saplings through the soil.

Love is not a big truth. It grows in the cracks in between the big truths like the undergrowth in the aftermath of a forest fire, overtakes fallen trees like lichen. It is a persistent but tenuous thing; it is not a given. It takes effort, requires care. Sometimes the big truths are too consuming and Keith and Shiro have to take a few hours or a day to tend to one small, soft thing. They find it out in the desert, at the end of a race or in the sage blossoms that Shiro picks for Keith, that he keeps in a vase by the bed. Keith feels it when Shiro won't let go of his face or his hand when they kiss. Shiro sees it when he doesn't have the strength to power up his prosthetic in the morning and Keith brings him yogurt and fruit in bed.

Sometimes the big truths make it hard to remember the small ones. Fights are fueled by the fire of large truths; they’re brittle and towering like a forest in drought, waiting to catch. Most days they’re unnoticeable; they are simply the place that Keith and Shiro live until suddenly everything is embers around them.

“Don’t fucking yell at me,” Shiro says.

“I’m not yelling,” Keith insists, voice loud.

“Yes you are,” Shiro says, and his voice shakes. Keith takes a deep breath.

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. You're right. I need to do better,” Keith says. In the larger truth of Keith's anger are these moments where the fragile things shine through. His desire to care for Shiro, his burgeoning ability to meet someone else's needs. They are new, delicate truths.

On bad days, when the big truths of Shiro's trauma and his loneliness burn hot, it's hard for Keith to find the gentle truths. They're buried underneath so many layers of pain and crowded so close together that it feels impossible to reach them. It takes time, but he digs deep and finds something growing, something to be cultivated. More often than not, Shiro needs to be touched in just the right way, reassured that his body is capable of more than violence. It doesn't make the big truths go away, but it eases them, beats them back like weeds from a field.

It takes time, but the small truths grow. They're still tender but they're less fragile as they take deeper root. They cannot make the big truths go away, can't overgrow them completely or forever, but over the years they take up more space in between them and push their boundaries back.

Keith and Shiro learn that they can't keep trying to put out all of the fires in their bodies alone, that they cannot be solely responsible for each other. Keith learns from a counselor off base to breathe through the anger and the panic; Shiro learns to hold him close instead of down and teaches him how to cling to his big body instead of hurting himself. Shiro asks Allura for help, sometimes, tries to tweak the prosthetic and ease the pain. Keith cradles him at night when it doesn't work but it's an orchard in their lives; the seeds may not produce right away, but there is always hope for later, if the soil is tilled and watered.

The small truths keep growing and the big truths still hurt. Eventually the lines blur and tending the small truths feels like caring for larger ones. Then their lives are an overgrowth of vines and shrubs and young trees, stretching toward the canopy of brittle, old truths.

Shiro starts to talk more. He tries not to let the enormous truths of his parents’ absence and his years in captivity stay silent and fester, doesn't let the memories rot and dry to kindling. He lets Keith help him and tries to help Keith care for his own memories, his own grief, until the big truth starts to become less about what they've lost and more about where it's led them.

One day, Shiro kisses Keith and says, “I'm proud of you,” and a new truth blooms in Keith's chest. The truth will always be that Keith is not an easy man to be with, that he will always fear asking for too much. But on top of that old truth, layers of Shiro's words and touches blossom and cover it like ivy. 

Every day there is more space in their lives for new things, for affection and trust to creep up the dying branches and trunks of everything that hurts. Keith learns new recipes, learns to wait for dough to rise and how to make the French toast Shiro craves on lazy mornings. He learns to steady his voice and meet Shiro halfway, and the middle ground becomes a garden that they learn to tend together.

Love is still a small truth. It can't replace their old truths, can't make them go away - but it can help stem the fires. It can give new truths room to grow.

**Author's Note:**

> i am so sorry for the amount of times you had to read the word "truth" if you made it through to the end.
> 
> [tumblr](http://propinquitous.tumblr.com)


End file.
